


Let's Misbehave!

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Burlesque, Burlesque Dancer Newt, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Prohibition, Speakeasies, probably historical inaccuracies but do you care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: It’d been a long day, anyway; Geiszler’d been a pain, as always, loud, obnoxious, provoking Hermann any chance he got (Geiszler calls him uptight, a square, follows him around campus all day and delights when Hermann finally snaps and throws something at his head or resorts to petty insults), and Hermann wonders, not for the first time, what he did to earn a colleague like that. Geiszler doesn’t matter now, though. Not when the headlining act is due to start any moment.





	Let's Misbehave!

**Author's Note:**

> to everyone who enabled me along the way: u know who u are
> 
> this will definitely like....get more in the series bc it's all i think about....also hey! exactly one year today since i posted my first ever newmann fic

Of all the speakeasies Hermann’s been too—which isn’t exactly a lot—this one is by far the least subtle. Usually, they’re underground affairs, existence disclosed by word of mouth alone and hidden behind nondescript wooden doors and passwords, and almost always... _seedy_. Sleazy. Of obvious ill repute. Cheap perfume lingering in the air, scarred mobsters lurking by the exists, the like. This one is practically begging to be discovered: pink sign above the door ( _La Brèche!_ , decorated with poorly-drawn hearts and sea monsters), loud horns and drums and piano that Hermann could hear a block away, red lighting seeping out under the door. Anyone passing by would know what it is instantly. Hermann knew what it was instantly.

But it’s clean, surprisingly. It’s well-run. Cigarette smoke, but no smoldering filters littering the floor, and cheap liquor, but not so cheap that Hermann spits it out and curses the day he ever left Europe.

Most importantly, it’s the kind of place that caters towards Hermann’s more private proclivities, meaning he can smoke his cigarettes and drink his Tom Collins and ogle all the attractive young men who sing and dance across the stage and wink at him across the bar to his heart’s content in _peace_. And they are very, very attractive: lean, well-built, well-dressed (brasseries, skirts, nylons that Hermann’s sure cost five times his drink), perfect in an untouchable way that Hermann’s more than content to sit back and appreciate from afar.

He heard of the place through one of his—er— _bachelor_ acquaintances who had an inkling that Hermann might be interested. And hell if Hermann wasn’t. It’d been a long day, anyway; Geiszler’d been a pain, as always, loud, obnoxious, provoking Hermann any chance he got (Geiszler calls him uptight, a _square_ , follows him around campus all day and delights when Hermann finally snaps and throws something at his head or resorts to petty insults), and Hermann wonders, not for the first time, what he did to earn a colleague like that. Geiszler doesn’t matter now, though. Not when the headlining act is due to start any moment.

(“He’s a dream,” Hermann’s acquaintance said. “Honest to God, Gottlieb.”)

Hermann gets himself another cocktail just as the lights—red, purple, pink, still gaudy as anything—begin to dim, and a single spotlight falls on the stage. The band strikes up again, slower this time, heavy on the brass, and Hermann lights up another cigarette and thinks whoever it is really must be the real deal when out walks the act, trussed up in elbow-length gloves, an elegant cape, a feather boa, plenty of tulle and large silver stars. ( _Pipette_ , the pianist announced him as.)

He’s softer than the others. Shorter. Stockier. Not nearly as young or fresh-faced, but his cheeks have a roundness about them the rouge he’s wearing accentuates nicely. He’s accentuated nicely by a _lot_ of things, actually—his fishnets show off his well-shaped thighs, his stomach hangs very slightly over the top of his tiny, silvery bottoms, his pretty lips stained dark with lipstick. He curls those lips into a sweet smile as he takes the microphone in hand, and Hermann realizes that this is the most alluring man he’s seen in his entire life.

Then he opens his mouth. “Hello, gentlemen!”

Hermann simultaneously chokes on his drink and drops his cigarette, and it singes a hole in his trousers before he has the sense to snatch it back up. He knows that voice, by jove. He knows that voice intimately. He got into an argument with the owner of that voice over quantum chemistry and the proper way to eat a bagel just that morning. He gets into arguments with the owner of that voice on the regular.

It _can’t_ be Geiszler. Geiszler isn't—he's not—

The band strikes up a much _raunchier_ rendition of a Porter song, and the performer drops his silvery cape, to much applause and whistling, and steps fully out of the shadows, and Hermann’s horror grows, because it undoubtedly _is_ Geiszler; he has Newton Geiszler’s mischievous smile, his untidy brown hair, swirls of ink on his chest the same colors and elaborate designs as the ones on Geiszler’s arms. (Hermann has never seen Geiszler’s bare skin beyond his arms. Not until now, anyway.)

Hermann watches the act in a confused haze of mortification and no small amount of arousal. Geiszler dances; he sings along, purposefully bad, but the crowd applauds anyway; he kicks off a silvery high heel, then another, then tosses both gloves to the crowd (flashing bare arms, and he has _all_ of Geiszler’s ink, of course he does), and one hits Hermann square in the chest.

That’s when Geiszler sees him, too.

To Geiszler’s credit, he only stumbles over the next line of the song a _little_ bit before the brass interlude kicks back.

Hermann does not know what he expects Geiszler to do—ignore him, maybe, pretend he didn’t see him and carry on with the show as usual, but certainly not acknowledge him, certainly not hop off the stage and strut across to him, certainly not straddle Hermann’s lap—careful of his bad knee—and wrap his feather boa around Hermann’s neck and plant a red-lipped kiss on his cheek and breathe low in his ear “Hiya, Doc,” while the spotlight burns hot and blinding on them.

“Geiszler,” he wheezes, as Newton drains the last of his cocktail (“Good taste,” Geiszler remarks, running his tongue over his wet bottom lip) and takes a drag of the cigarette Hermann forgot he even lit. “ _Newton_ ,” he tries again, and Geiszler flicks open Hermann’s top two buttons and drags his finger down Hermann’s throat, “what are you—”

Geiszler tugs him close by the ends of the boa, planting Hermann’s face right at his sternum, and the rough, glittery star pasties Geiszler’s adhered to his pectorals brush at Hermann’s cheeks. Hermann’s hands fly, instinctively, to Geiszler’s soft, curved sides to steady himself, and all his blood rushes south. “It’s Newt, hotshot,” Geiszler says, swooping in and kissing his cheek again. “Having fun?”

“I,” Hermann stammers, and Geiszler shifts the curve of his rear down against the front of Hermann’s trousers just enough to tease, takes one of Hermann’s hands and slides it up his stocking to the very tip of the garter.

“Hm?” Geiszler says, and bats his eyelashes. He’s painted those, too, a dark black that looks nice with his green irises, and decorated his eyelids with tiny flecks of glitter that catch and glimmer in the light.

“Yes,” Hermann gasps, marveling at him, lovestruck and dazed, “I—”

Geiszler drops his hold on the boa and Hermann, and with a little wink, he’s strutting back to the stage just like that, leaving Hermann with lipstick staining his glass and cigarette, disheveled, and aroused out of his mind.

The gentleman to Hermann’s right casts Hermann an envious look. Hermann's not sure whether to feel smug or bolt from the premises.

Hermann hounds the pianist of the band for the location of Geiszler’s dressing room once the closing act—nowhere near Geiszler’s level of talent—takes his parting bows, and the band strikes up its usual background music. “I can’t just _give it out_ , buddy,” the pianist says. He doesn’t even bother to stop playing. “As far as I know, you could be some sorta—”

Hermann feels a tap on his shoulder. “Hiya, Doc,” Geiszler repeats.

He whirls around. Geiszler’s still in full makeup and costume, but he’s swapped out his silver heels for thick work boots that look comical with the rest of his getup and tossed a light green dressing gown over it all. It’s belted loosely, so Hermann can still see a great deal of his skin. A great deal. His palm starts to sweat against his cane. “He’s fine,” Newt says to the piano player, inclining his head at Hermann, and the piano player nods.

“Newton!” Hermann begins. “Newt. Er—” He has not quite planned out what to say to Geiszler. ( _It’s Newt, hotshot_.) I didn’t know we ran in the same crowd? I didn’t know you moonlighted as a burlesque dancer? I didn’t know you moonlighted as a _very good_ burlesque dancer and that I want nothing more than screw you senseless right now?

Geiszler—Newton—Newt reaches out and grabs the ends of the feather boa Hermann’s yet to discard, and tugs Hermann forward. “C’mon,” he says, smiling that same mischievous, playful smile up at him, and Hermann’s forgotten arousal flickers back to life. “Let’s talk in private.” 

(Hermann's mind starts racing before he can help himself; he and Newt, his terrible, irksome colleague, alone, in private, Newt, with his fluttering eyelashes and fishnets, Newt straddling his lap and calling him _hotshot_ and letting Hermann touch him anywhere, everywhere he likes.) "Sure," Hermann says, breathing shakily.

The dressing room is small, more like a closet than anything. There's a chaise shoved into the corner, a dressing vanity cluttered with makeup and perfumes and a half-finished cocktail, a rack of increasingly skimpy and scandalous costumes Hermann would give anything to see Newt in. Newt flings himself onto the chaise and kicks off his heavy boots the instant Hermann shuts the door. All of Newt’s flirtatious bravado from the speakeasy floor and stage is gone, not even a flicker of his usual obnoxious self-assurance Hermann's grown accustom to after years of working alongside him left: he looks a little nervous, a little uneasy, like he thinks Hermann’s going to charge at him or start yelling or something. “So,” Newt says, twisting the tie of his dressing gown. “Gottlieb. Hermann. Pal. You’re...?”

Hermann catches sight of himself in Newt’s vanity mirror. Newt’s done a hell of a number on him: collar sticking out of his sweatervest, that damned feather boa wrapped round his neck, hair going every which-way, lipstick kisses and glitter smeared all over his flushed face. He forces himself to tear his eyes away and look back to Newt. (The most alluring man Hermann's ever seen, he thought, when he first laid eyes on Newt's costume.) “Well. It’d seem,” he says.

Newt’s face splits into a grin. “Swell,” he says. His bravado comes back with a vengeance; he sits up and drops the robe, giving Hermann a full view of his chest once more, of the ink, of the rolls of his stomach, of the glitter and the little stars. “You enjoy the show, then, Dr. Gottlieb?”

Hermann nods.

Newt smiles. He spreads his legs slowly, dragging his fingertips up his own thighs. “I’m always keen to give encore performances,” he says.

“Oh,” Hermann says.

Newt holds out a hand. Hermann takes it.

Their work relationship improves vastly after that.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr hermannsthumb, twitter hermanngaylieb
> 
> nsfw twitter if you're 18+ (and it says so in your bio!) is hermanngayszler, where i sometimes post wips and talk about my dumb historical aus


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